This decade of life has revolved around coming to terms with betrayals of the body.
Following the first year of the pandemic, I sold my both my beloved surf kayak as well as my stashed in bushes on the beach workout kayak because the lifting and loading was taking a toll on my back.
In comparison to many people I care about, I've had it relatively easy. Two colleagues are facing serious cancer diagnoses. Another friend with young children lost a spouse last year. A couple of dear friends have had to leave the practice of medicine entirely due to deteriorating health.
All of this underscores the fragility of our self-conception, and how quickly that bubble is prone to bursting.
This was the experience of two friends last week, who saw themselves transition from young and carefree to middle-aged and on chronic medication in a sudden and disorienting fashion.
The first, a world traveler living a physically active life abroad, came to terms with heredity and was started on medication to control the same chronic disease that his parents took medication for.
The second had a similar reckoning with cholesterol, genetics ultimately determining his need for statins.
In a flash, you have crossed a border you had no idea you were approaching, and you find yourself situated firmly on the distant side opposite your now vanished youth.
I spend a few minutes every morning reviewing the google photo albums reminding me of this day ten years ago, and so on, and I find the memory dividends (look at what I could do back then, look at how small they were, remember how every day felt being so deliriously intoxicated with you) are something I deeply value.
I expect that as I am able to do less, I will spend time remembering more.
There are activities, enthusiasms, and relationships that are no longer open to me at this stage of life. That's okay.
I feel gratitude that my body has allowed me to enjoy (better word: endure?) as much as it has for as long as it has. I recall and miss the many who did not receive this gift.